


The Road to Hell is Paved With Bad Decisions

by MistCover



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon is a guideline not a rule, Demons are fun to explore, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 04:17:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13333323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistCover/pseuds/MistCover
Summary: Widowmaker, formerly Amelie LaCroix, is new to this whole 'demon' business. How does it work? What are her powers? A short exploration of Widowmaker growing into her new powers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a commissioned follow-up to Signed in Blood, requested by playinhooky.tumblr.com.

The senses of a demon are nothing, _nothing_ like the senses of a human. The newly christened Widowmaker has learned this over the day she’s been transformed. Currently, she’s ogling the people milling about in a clothing store she used to frequent. Colors are brighter and more primary. Sounds are clearer. Smells are stronger. Even her sense of touch is magnified, which makes her newly found immaterialism a gift. There’s so much more to the world than Amelie, the human, could have ever sensed. Everything is surrounded by its own personal glow, an aura that shimmers, tells of what has been, is, and whispers promises of what could be. The little boy tugging on his mother’s shirt flickers into a young man with a wry smile and a painter’s brush, then to hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks, then to a plump version of himself, smiling down at something. Possibility, it’s all possibility, and she can not only sense it, but she’s been assured she could do something about it as well. 

“It’s a good thing no one here can see you,” Mercy purrs, wrapping herself around Widowmaker. 

“It is… fascinating.” Widowmaker replies. The cold autumn wind picks up, and neither demon reacts as the air fails to rustle their hair. 

“Focus on that young man there. What can you see?” Mercy’s tone is patient and kind, her accent now fully emerged from its shell, running through Amelie’s ears like so much warm water.

Widowmaker focuses. The man is browsing through the trousers, his expression focused. His aura flicks back and forth before resolving, showing him moving steadily down the rack and selecting several pairs. He’ll then move to the dressing rooms, where none of the trousers will fit. His physical body shakes its head and the aura vision shifts, showing him eschewing selecting trousers and walking out of the store empty handed. Both paths arc from him in purple and blue motes, intersecting and weaving with the thousands of other potential paths sprouting from the people around him. It is electric, and overwhelming. So much action contained in so little space, constantly changing as humans change their minds, their plans, their thoughts. Widowmaker shows no expression on her face. Instead, she looks down to where Mercy has wound her arms around her midsection, her pale skin complemented and deepened by Widowmaker’s new blueish pallor. 

“That he is too fat to fit into the trousers he wants to fit into,” she concludes, pulling Mercy a bit closer. “And that he will be leaving the store in eighty three seconds. That he will follow this--” she gestures with one finger, tracing the line she can see in her mind’s eye-- “path out, presumably to his car.”

“Now, don’t make assumptions,” Mercy chides. “He could very well be on his way out to a taxi, or to meet up with a friend. Not all walks out lead to cars.” Widowmaker huffs, appropriately chastised. The man, entirely oblivious to all of this, steps out of the store exactly as Widowmaker predicted, following the path she traced for him. The other choices fade away into nothingness as his future solidifies. 

“Can you see it?” Widowmaker asks. 

“See what?” Mercy asks.

“How people are going to move. Where they’re going, where they are now.” Widowmaker is tracking multiple paths with her eyes, following a dozen people’s days simultaneously. 

“Not precisely, no. I can see how poor their health is.” Mercy points out a few people, her gesture languid and relaxed. “He’s got diabetes. She hasn’t had a day off in three months, and the stress is breaking down her organs.”

“And yet, I see none of that.” Her head begins to pound with the effort of absorbing so much information. Widowmaker blinks, forcibly pushing away what she can see, what she can know. 

“The way we manifest is different for each of us. It has to do with your intent when you were changed, I believe.” Mercy steps back, taking Widowmaker’s hand, which makes her heart sing with joy. The holding is fine, but the touch of her hand says something much deeper. It says _I care about you,_ an alien sensation to Widowmaker. Her intent, when she was made, was to track down her (ex) husband and kill him. She was pinpoint focused on that goal- murder Gerard, escape his bonds, and use her power to help other girls who don’t have months of free time to summon up a demon with a convoluted and dangerous payment plan. Now, her path forward is clear to her. Other girls need her help, and no matter how lovely it feels to be in the presence of Mercy, to hold her close as the only thing she can hold, she has work to do. Men to murder. 

“When do I begin my work?” Widowmaker asks. Mercy looks at her askew. 

“When you get a contract?” She says, slowly, as though she were explaining herself to a small child. 

“And until then…?” Widowmaker lets her thought trail off.

“Until then, you can see but not act. Or, if you do act, it is at a great personal cost.” Mercy says, as though reciting something she was forced to memorize long ago.  
“So I’m trapped like this. Watching the world go by until someone is stupid enough to attempt to summon an actual demon.” Widowmaker gestures to the people, the mass of humanity, minding their own business in lieu of noticing the demons literally among them.

“You could present yourself to humans.” Mercy suggests.

“And what is that supposed to--”

“Mercy, you’re so _predictable!_ ” A voice declares, rich but studded with sharp edges. “You could at least try to make this fun for me. I found you in seconds!” A woman (at least, Widowmaker thinks its a woman) coalesces into view in front of them. She’s blue, bluer than Widowmaker, with snow white hair done up to twin peaks and blue clothes, so it’s almost impossible to tell where skin ends and fabric begins. Every part of her is sharp, from the razor-like outcroppings on her arms to the metallic details that flank her hips. Her dress, or what is presumably a dress, looks like someone took a snowflake of enormous size and of every color in a glacier, pinched it in the middle, and laid it down to droop before sharpening the hem to a deadly edge. Her nails are long, connecting to what looks like icy circuitry on her hands. In lieu of shoes, she has more metal on her knees and on her feet, all in triangles and other harsh corners, seemingly placed with no rhyme or reason.  
“Sombra.” Mercy says. Her tone goes from the thickly accented, playful voice Widowmaker has grown used to to something flat and uninterested.  
“Mercy!” Sombra smiles, and her teeth are almost painfully white to look at, surrounded by deep blue lips. “Who’s the new hija, then? Ey, tan nuevo!” She glides in lazy circles around Widowmaker, appraising her, her eyes tracking each and every part of her. It’s unsettling, like when Mercy used to track the human Amelie.  
“And who are you?” Widowmaker sneers, her composure solid. 

“They call me Sombra, and that’s all you need to know.” Sombra’s tone is playful, inquisitive, like a kitten batting around a ball of string. 

“Then I am Widowmaker, and that is all you need to know.” Widowmaker allows herself the briefest of ice-cold smiles.

There’s a short, strange beeping sound, a snap of pressure, and Widowmaker’s senses go dull, her ears ringing, the world collapsing in on itself as she scrambles to reach for her newly formed demonic powers and finds them lacking. She looks around blearily, manifesting her rifle out of thin air, ready to fight. She catches Mercy’s eye, and her counterpart seems mildly annoyed but overall relaxed, signalling Widowmaker to follow suit. Sombra materializes back into view as Widowmaker’s vision resolves and her ears clear, her left hand extended, fingers half curled. 

“Gotcha.” Sombra’s smile is razor-fine on the edges, and although her eyes are the color of frozen tears, they burn with a fire Widowmaker has rarely seen. The humans continue to mill about, passing through the trio at odd intervals, entirely oblivious to their existence. “You’re very, very new at this, aren’t you? Newer than I thought. Got your first contract yet?” Widowmaker purses her lips, shakes her head. 

“Sombra, she’s under me. If you could--”

“Oh, she’s _under you_ alright,” Sombra laughs, eyes dancing. Mercy clenches her fists, her knuckles going white under the tension. 

“Enough. Enough! We are not going to stand around all day acting like children. Do you actually have a reason to be here, Sombra, or are you just an annoyance?”  
“Just visiting an old friend,” she says. “But, if you wanted my help…”

“No. No, I do not.” Widowmaker drops her rifle. It vanishes mid-fall. 

“Alright, fine. But if you want me, later, all you have to do is ask.” Sombra goes on tiptoe, pressing her finger to the tip of Widowmaker’s nose, and vanishes.  
“As you were saying.” Widowmaker recomposes herself from the interruption. 

“As I was saying, if you want contracts, sometimes you have to be proactive about it.” Mercy visibly relaxes, floating back over to Widowmaker.

“Which means I need to find someone to track.” Widowmaker says. Mercy nods, once. “Very well.”


	2. Chapter 2

The young woman they end up tracking is a bundle of energy and fire. She’s got a cascade of flame-red hair and the lithe, springy form of someone used to working their entire body. Widowmaker follows her home, tracing her pattern through the streets. She stops at an apartment complex. Widowmaker wastes no time, divining which apartment the woman is going to enter through the hazy pink sparkles of her future selves and beating her to the punch, drifting through the widow with as much effort as it takes to move through thin air.

The apartment itself is small, but cozy. Several rugs litter the floor, and the living room sports a large and comfortable looking couch, a coffee table with several take out containers scattered on it, and two huge bookshelves stuffed to the brim. The light is low, but pleasantly so, and it smells like cinnamon and the citric sting of bath bombs. Widowmaker sprawls herself on the couch, spreading her arms over the back, crossing one leg over the other, her chest ever so slightly pushed outward and her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. The front door beeps and the knob turns.

“Jesus fuck!” The woman has the accent of upper class London. Her current home probably isn’t what she’s used to, then. Widowmaker is elated. Someone of her breeding will be much easier to persuade than the general public. The extremes of wealth and poverty tend to hold the most superstitious beliefs; the poor because they are hoping for a miracle, and the rich because they believe deep down they can pay their way out of any situation.

“Good evening,” Widowmaker says, letting her voice melt down into caramel. “I hear you have a problem.”

“Who the fuck are you, how did you get in here? I’m calling the--”

Widowmaker extends her left hand, expelling a length of grey cord that gives the compelling illusion that she has now grappled across the room. She lands in front of the other woman, shifting into fourth position. 

“I am trying to help you.” She regards her with sympathetic, if distant, eyes. The other woman has worry etched across her freckled features, which is understandable, given the circumstances. But it’s all part of the game, isn’t it? Widowmaker remembers the fear Mercy once struck in her. Hopefully she’s ringing the same bell, now.   
“Help me? By breaking into my home?” She frowns, but doesn’t move. Perhaps she is locked into place by fear? That wouldn’t be the worst outcome for Widowmaker.  
“You spent most of your day placating a man with text messages. I saw him drive by your place of work three times, each time slowing down and stopping traffic until he could verify you were inside. Older, brown hair, olive skin? Sound… familiar?” Widowmaker continues to stare at the girl, watching her possibilities sprout, flourish, and vanish as she does. Dozens of ghosts flow from this woman, each declaring a different choice. One is much stronger, though, and is quickly resolving into her pursing her lips and declaring:

“And what do you have to do with it? It’s my business.” She doesn’t crumble under a hint of pressure, staying resolute against the intruder. 

“I can fix it.” Widowmaker says, simply. 

“How?” She asks.

“I can kill him. For a small fee, of course.” Widowmaker hums for a moment, then relaxes her posture, leaning against the wall with all the grace of her dancing days.  
“So you’re some kind of hitman?” The woman seems incredulous, but her tone betrays a hint of curiosity. 

“No. I am not of Earth.” She waves her hand through the woman, as immaterial as ever. “I exist to help girls like you, in bad situations, with bad men.” The woman’s eyes go wide for a moment, fear being shoved out of the way by comprehension, apprehension, and something dangerously close to a flicker of hope. 

“What’s the fee?” She asks, almost breathless. Widowmaker pauses for dramatic effect, and to give herself a chance to think. What could she extract from this adorable young woman with rosy cheeks and emerald eyes?

“I have a friend. A human. I’ll arrange it so you can spend twenty four hours with her. Do so, and your problems will be finished.” As she speaks, Widowmaker is all at once sure that if this woman agrees, she _can_ do what she has said she’ll do; that on some fundamental level, she is going to be granted greater and grander power in service of this one task. The other woman considers this, her face twisting through a whole series of emotions, never quite settling down on something. Her aura, similarly, explodes in a fractal of potential, her future suddenly thrown entirely into doubt. Widowmaker takes a moment to admire the show, watching this woman filter through a cornucopia of possibilities. 

“Will I be suspected?” She asks, still wary. 

“No, of course not. It will look like something you had absolutely no hand in. It would be sloppy work, otherwise.” Widowmaker assures her. Obviously she wouldn’t let this young woman, so full of life, of potential, of love, be locked away for what will be a crime she did not commit. 

“Then… wow, you’re really serious, aren’t you?” The woman seems genuinely astonished. Widowmaker nods, once. 

“Alright, then. I’ll take it.” The woman says. Her aura goes from a scattered jumble to a resolute, shining beacon. All roads lead to death-- and freedom. Widowmaker feels the deal snap into place, cementing her connection to this woman. She knows, instinctively, that their minds are now intertwined, that she can follow this woman to the ends of the Earth and back and never get lost, that she can do almost anything at all for her, as long as it is in service to the deal. Her very soul warps and flares, wrapping around the core of this small mortal like a protective cloak, staining her, but also marking her as Widowmaker’s. 

“Excellent. What may I call you?” Widowmaker asks, already spinning in her head plans for how she is to kill this fresh monster. Something simple, easy to clean. Something that will look like a suicide, or an accident. A gunshot wound to the head from the next building over would be clean, but obviously a murder. Perhaps something closer in range…? Widowmaker barely makes it out of her contemplation to realize the woman is speaking.

“Emily. You can call me Emily, seeing as that’s my name and all.” Emily gives a nervous little smile, offering a hand. Widowmaker pantomimes taking it, and Emily starts when her hand passes straight through Widowmaker’s, before remembering that’s exactly what happened last time. 

“And you may call me Widowmaker. If you need me, simply call.” Widowmaker says. With a thought and a moment’s concentration, she vanishes from the apartment, leaving Emily alone to consider what she has just arranged for.


	3. Chapter 3

It was Widowmaker’s idea, in the end, to bring Mercy along. She was there for her first kill as a mortal- it seems only fitting that she would also be present for her first kill as a demigod. They’ve chosen where they’re to do this thing, in the target’s shitty one room apartment, and are both waiting for him to arrive. Mercy is perched on the windowsill, one hand reaching up in an imitation of steadying herself, her knees bent and her spine twisted at an awkward angle. It gives the distinct impression that she is ready and willing to leap off this building at any second. Widowmaker has helped herself to a glass of this man’s terrible whiskey, and is leaning against the far wall, carefully pretending to sip on the drink. She’s more of a wine woman, truth be told, but in the end it’s all about appearances. The .44 hanging lazily off her nylon-clad hip only serves to accentuate the look. 

The man enters the apartment with a rattling of keys and a long, tired sigh. He doesn’t even notice the women at first, he’s so engrossed in his phone, with its earbud cords snaking their way out of a pile of messy, dark hair. He flicks on the light without thinking, and then looks up. 

He screams, a high and sharp sound, a sound that ends as abruptly as it began. His eyes go wide and he drops his phone, which shatters on the cold wooden floor. Widowmaker’s mouth works without her, turning up into a smirk of delight at the effect she’s had on him.

“Welcome home.” Widowmaker says. Mercy shifts her weight from foot to foot, her white suit reflecting the light across the tiny space.

“Who the fuck are you? Why the fuck are you in my--”

“Shh, shh, shh,” Widowmaker purrs, peeling herself off the wall and approaching the man, hips swaying to emphasize both her figure and the gun. “This is no time for questions.” With one fluid motion, she pulls the gun out of its holster and tucks it neatly under the man’s chin, which is now coated in a thin sheen of sweat. He responds with another undignified noise, something caught in the space between a gasp and another shriek. Widowmaker sighs, enjoying herself, the thought that now, finally, she will get a chance to stop the course of fate and of bad men. The man- what even was his name?- scrambles, tries to grab the gun, which Widowmaker pulls back just out of his reach when his fingers are a hair’s breadth from the metal. 

“Widowmaker, could you stop playing with your target?” Mercy whines, watching the scene with bright eyes and an unnatural intensity.

“But it is so much _fun,_ ” Widowmaker counters, spinning around the man, putting her lips a scant inch from his ear. 

“As much as I enjoy the show, I don’t want to stay here all night.” Mercy unfolds herself, entering the apartment fully. 

“And?” Widowmaker counters. The man is still too shocked to properly react, his feet seemingly nailed to the floor.

“And if you end this, I’ll make it worth your while.” Mercy gives Widowmaker a half smile, but her eyes dance with nervous energy. She doesn’t delight in this nearly to the degree Widowmaker does, and she wants it over with-- now. 

“Ah, but you see--” Widowmaker starts to speak, and then the man seemingly comes to life, whipping around and frantically pawing at his door.

The gun goes off under his chin. It is messy, and fast, and loud, the sound almost having a physical presence in the space, filling the air with a cacophony of noise and echo. The former man’s viscera spatters the ceiling, the walls, and the floor as his body slumps over into a heap. Widowmaker drops the gun, and it falls surreptitiously close to his right hand, as though he had dropped it himself. 

“Well.” Mercy says, walking over to the body. She kneels down over him, carefully keeping herself not fully real, and examines his wound. She makes a careful note of the way his head has painted the wall, the angle of the blood, the way he has lain himself out for his final resting place. Without ceremony, she grabs the whiskey out of Widowmaker’s hand, dropping the glass by him, letting it shatter and spill alcohol to mix and mingle with the blood. Brown and crimson swirl lazily together as she steps over him, finding the bottle Widowmaker had taken the drink from. She uncaps it, spilling alcohol on his shirt and splashing a little more on the floor until the bottle is nearly empty. She places it, uncapped, on the floor near him. 

“Well?” Widowmaker asks, impatient.

“I think it looks like a convincing suicide.” Mercy stands up, having delivered her final diagnosis. As she stands, Widowmaker feels her body surge forward, the endorphins of the kill mixing with the sheer beauty of Mercy. She launches herself at her, slamming Mercy against the door. She kisses her, deep and hard and _needing,_ every cell of her alive at the thought that yes, yes she _did that_ , she _ended him,_ and here is Mercy, as gorgeous as always. Mercy starts, then returns the kiss with equal fervor. Both women’s hands wander over their respective skin tight suits, but neither dares go further with a fresh body nearby. Even as their kiss deepens, their need palpable, both stay clothed. Widowmaker whines against Mercy, pushing her further against the door, making clear her intention. 

“We should be going. The police will be here soon.” Mercy says, her voice low in her chest and full of fire. 

With a growl, Widowmaker grabs Mercy’s hands. She focuses on her home, the stone walls, the new plush furniture, Mercy’s things mingling with her own-- and the pair of them vanish from the scene of the crime, to better and more pressing matters.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, you can commission me at valkyrie-mode.tumblr.com!!!  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
